Jürgen Mayer H. is the founder and owner of J. MAYER H., a cross-disciplinary studio focusing on architecture and spatial practices, based in Berlin. Bending conventions by either inventing new material applications or creating unexpected, whimsical shapes, his commissions—ranging from civic landmarks to private homes—always push boundaries and delight the contemporary eye. During his last visit to New York City, when lecturing at Columbia University’s Graduate School of Architecture, Planning and Preservation, Base got a chance to interview him.
Base: We were first introduced to you through architecture, but since then we’ve learned that you’re equal parts architect and artist. How do you reconcile the two?
Jürgen Mayer H.: It all started from an art point of view, when I wasn’t sure if I should go to art or architecture school. An interest in 3D objects that you could walk around and explore grew into an interest in buildings and cultural production. I leaned more towards architecture. That’s why I went to school.
In practice, though, I don’t see such a difference [between art and architecture]. Both raise similar questions: how does our body communicate in space? What is the current state of art in relation to technology and nature, and our body in terms of communications? Sometimes that happens in an architectural context, sometimes in art, and sometimes in a design context.
It’s more how we show or discuss our work that ends up defining the context. At J. MAYER H., we show art installations in architectural contexts, and vice versa. For me, I don’t live in one or the other, but both. The potentials of spaces that we create in our culture that are important to us now are mostly considered architectural, but I don’t see that as being the only context. It’s limiting.
B: Between art and architecture, which do you find more soul-filling? Is one more professionally and personally challenging than the other?
JMH: Based on the first question, I don’t see much of a difference. Architecture tends to be more complex because it involves so many layers of creation and getting things done, which can be equally painful and joyful. There are rules, clients, a political dimension, even, such as when projects fall within election schedules, which often occurs with the public projects that we’re involved in. They make it the art of negotiation more so than the art of creation.
In many cases, it’s the clarity of a concept itself that can be most fulfilling. And then, independent of art, architecture, or design, the feedback from the people who see it or use it can be quite touching too. Here’s a story that I like to tell:
Two years ago we got an email from a 17-year old from Seville [where J. MAYER H. is building a major public commission; see Metropol Parasol below]. He wrote, “I’m Chico, and I just want to thank you so much. It’s my city. It’s my future. I’m so excited to have this project in my Seville.”
The feedback from architecture is more immediate; people are more involved. Also the relationship you have with a client can stretch on for two or three years, so they’re part of the creative process; whereas with art, you create internally, personally and then put it out there. Art projects receive a different kind of feedback. Maybe the collector likes or relates to my work. Or maybe it’s the challenge of the thoughts involved, or the critique or discourse that it generates. Art feedback tends to be more intellectual, more thought-related. The two have completely different feedback cycles.
But, in the end, I don’t make a distinction between the two, really. [He smiles.]
B: Are your influences fundamentally the same when designing a private home or corporate headquarters or government building?
JMH: Yes.
B: You’re known for a quirky collection that inspires much of your thinking: data-protection patterns that are oftentimes found in envelopes containing checks or other information necessitating security. What’s up with that?
JMH: In 1994 or 1995, these patterns became a metaphor for a lot of issues that we’re dealing with: boundaries between public and private, inside and outside, meaning and non-meaning, writing and content. They also represent a certain technological development that conceals the personal through a superimposition of text, a blurring of an aesthetic—these patterns: designed, lyrical—that’s very strategic at the same time.
My research into these patterns was not very successful because, ironically, the patterns conceal their own history. I spoke to printers, professors of graphic design and history, font developers, technical and technological museums, but no one knew how these patterns came into the world. The oldest information I dug up came from Erik Spiekermann, founder of MetaDesign, who bought a printing house—and with it, its archive—that went bankrupt in the 80s, called Berthold in Berlin. Berthold was at the forefront of font development at the turn of the last century. In that archive, he found a catalog of lead typesetters (I think they’re called “typesetters.”) from around 1913 that had, what seemed to be, data-protection patterns on them. My assumption is that these were used with carbon paper, which allowed you to write an original and copy it at the same time, for such forms as shipping slips, invoices, purchase orders. All of these required that certain areas of information be blocked out, so that, for instance, the person delivering a shipment doesn’t know the value of what’s being delivered. Thus, there are areas on certain forms that had this visual noise. By printing onto the visual pattern, you wouldn’t be able to read what was written there; it was obfuscated. This is different from printing onto an entirely black field because the imprint from the typewriter could be read from the keys’ pressure. That visual noise, I believe, was one of the earliest forms of data management.
Nowadays, basically these patterns have become an everyday object that mostly goes unnoticed. They appear inside envelopes, on multiple forms from your bank, salary slips, etc., and although they’re present everywhere, they exist to be thrown away by the person to whom the information is being sent.
I have about 300-400 different patterns now, and I’m planning to archive them properly. They have to be cataloged and then I’ll possibly publish them as a source book, a kind of found-object book. I’m still collecting, and it’s getting bigger and bigger. People all over the world help me collect them.
B: Are there other collections that you’ve acquired over the years?
JMH: None other that’s still active or worth talking about here. [laughter]
B: If you could open another office, in which city would it be? Why?
JMH: New York would be great because I feel home here and that’s part of where my education became important. Also, I have so many friends here and I like the liveliness here and the opportunities. But then, I’m curious right now to explore other cultures too. If an opportunity presents itself, I would be open to it, in, let’s say, Istanbul or Tbilisi [in Georgia] or Buenos Aires. Why not!?
B: Without naming names (if need be), what’s the oddest architectural request a client has made?
JMH: One strange one was for a private house: he wanted a house within a house, so that he could send his partner away when needing private time. But that’s not so odd, I guess. We never developed the design any further.
B: What art projects are you working on right now?
JMH: There have been several lately. There was an exhibition at Alexander Ochs Galerie in Berlin, showing our sculpture chit.chat, and another show at Galerie Magnus Müller, also in Berlin, in June. And a large installation solo show in the Berlinische Galerie (the State Museum). We’re also working on an exhibition for a gallery in Prague, in September.
B: Tell us about the latest book you released.
JMH: It’s called –arium: Weather and Architecture. It’s about the relationship between weather and our everyday culture, like business, travel, tourism, health, war. And based on that, we looked at the consequences of our architectural production. The book is based on a class I co-taught with Neeraj Bhatia at the University of Toronto, and it includes contributions from guest critics like Marc Kushner and Matthias Hollwich, Henry Urbach, Rodolphe el-Khoury, and Robert Levit.
B: Do you ever receive firsthand feedback from the tenants/occupants/users of your buildings? In particular, have you heard from the diners in your Mensa Karlsruhe? How about visitors to Curiosity Center and/or Food Factory at Danfoss Universe?
JMH: Not much from those two buildings really, at least not directly. But we get feedback from the owners of the building that people like hanging out there; they use it as a meeting place and a touchpoint to discuss contemporary architecture. They enjoy a new form of spatial reality.
B: Many artists tend to near, but often not attain, complete satisfaction in their work. Do you feel the same about your architecture? Do you always wish you could make after-the-fact modifications?
JMH: I’m very happy with the way we generate work, the way the J. MAYER H. team creates a lively discourse. The satisfaction is first about the team spirit that’s the basis of these projects; the result of our process then becomes the basis of our designs. Of course it doesn’t stop with the design itself, but continues with construction, where new possibilities arise from different inputs: from clients, from manufacturers of new materials, from engineers. I respect the project as a result of the entire process, and therefore do not feel the need to make changes.
B: Architects are sometimes recognized by their look. Describe yours? Is there a signature Jürgen Mayer H. article of clothing or accessory?
JMH: All over the place. [laughter] How would you define it?
B: Do you have any all-time favorite art exhibitions that constantly repeat in your head and still remain a source of inspiration?
Tough question.
There’s one that always comes back to mind, a retrospective of Cy Twombly, maybe in 1990, at the Kunsthaus Zürich. The sculpture section especially bothered me, how they had placed the objects, so I secretly turned a piece 90-degrees with a friend when the guard had turned his back on us. I felt much better afterwards, but when we returned 90 minutes later, it had been returned to its proper position, which was very disappointing.
B: What’s your favorite art museum in the world? Your favorite art gallery?
JMH: Favorite questions are a nightmare. Here are three: Mies van der Rohe’s Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin…[long silence prevails.] Maybe the Natural History Museum in La Prata, south of Buenos Aires.
B: What blogs do you read these days?
JMH: None.
B: What’s your next big thing?
JMH: We’re finishing up a major project: Metropol Parasol in Seville, opening in about a year. It’s a new form of urban public space that combines a new landmark for the city with an archeology museum [it’s built atop of Roman ruins], a food market, and other commercial areas in the very center of the medieval city. It’s the largest timber construction in the world and one of our most innovative projects because it uses the latest glue technology for strengthening the joints, of which there are thousands.
B: Any parting words for your adoring fans?
JMH: Thank you.
To read more about J. MAYER H. and to view their architectural and art projects, visit the firm’s website.
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